White is the color of the flowers that bloom among the the edges of the garden paths. They all pretend to be smaller replicas of the full moon that reflects from the surface of the pond. This pond lies at the center of my garden. It’s glass-like sheen is buttoned up with rows of ever-blooming lily pads that the fireflies use to waltz upon through the waxing nights. Everything is perfect here. I know the exact time in the evening that the crickets sing and crescendo their hearts until the morning fog gently kisses this world of mine. The dawn blushes in each, new, perfect way, as though she never expected to be wakened once more by a diminishing night. I somehow have imagined to myself that each time the dawn rises, the night is slipping away. He waves softly to her just as she breaks, and his last memories slip beyond her view. She chases after him age after age, never attaining him but always in the same, repetitive circle because she is too blind to be anything other than what she thinks herself capable of being.
Am I like the dawn?
Posted in Writer, Writing
Tagged creative writing, fairy tale, fantasy, Fantasy Races and Creatures, Fiction, imagination, love, novel, story, Writer, writing
I am a unicorn. My hair slides along my graceful neck in pearlescent waves like frothy, ocean tides – brushing and crashing and whispering and falling back and never only in one place but never imperfect. Slender legs delicately press my hooves into the earth, and the ground feels honored at my presence. The Wind smells sweeter as it passes through my mane, though I do not smell sweetly myself. Unicorns do not smell like anything; but if they did smell like something, it would be the scents of Wisdom and Time that mingle in the airs around me- a swirling aura that I cannot escape from- that I was created with. I watch the world come and go and never forget, but I never stop to wonder where everything that used to be went. Am I a creature like the birds that wander in search of love and freedom? No. I do not search for anything. Am I presence like the Ocean that will only just forever exist without knowing her own purpose but filling it each day? No. I do not think I am void of feelings entirely or something made to serve and benefit. The Ocean has no desires that I know. Then again, just because I do not understand my own feelings does not mean that other things do not have any. Continue reading
Posted in Musings, Thoughts, Writer, Writing
Tagged Dragons, fairy, Fiction, Mermaids, Mythological Creatures, story, Unicorns, Write, Writer, writing
One time, the Activist was talking to the Socialite. In the midst of their ongoing debate, the Teacher approached. As the Teacher proceeded to tell the Activist and the Socialite why they were both incorrect in their musings, the Egoist overheard the conversation but continued walking by because he thought that they were all wrong and was offended by the suggestions which countered his own ideas. The Socialite nodded his head without any notion of what was happening while the Activist spoke words that attempted to contradict the Teacher, but they only came out as disassembled phrases of things he once had heard.
It was then that the Peacemonger passed by and secured heavy tape across the mouths of all who were involved in the raucous debate, but the plan backfired as soon as the individuals managed to scrape the sticky strips from their faces and used it to tie up the Peacemonger so that he could no longer interfere with their very serious discussion. This all happened as the Independent came near and thought it was none of his business but got on top of a box and started to talk about something he did believe in that had nothing to do with anything, and the Introvert skidded away at the first sighting of possible confrontation.
Many words came from the mouths of the Teacher and the Activist with a small, needless accompaniment of the Socialite who only wondered if he would be late for his meeting. The Independent laughed slightly at the uproar and continued his speech, and the Peacemonger warbled beneath the confines of tape when the Introvert sent up a silent prayer for all of them. The Egoist was already far-gone at this point, reveling in each haughty step he took at his own amazement of how much better off he was in his thoughts than all of them, even though he never fully heard what they were actually talking about.
With all of this, the Solitudinarian stood at his window, drinking in every word and motion that passed on the street. He remained staring at them with his mouth shut, being the only person who heard them because they could not hear the other over themselves or their thoughts. He stayed there even after they had all left in disgruntled, defeated strides as he thought about every word that each one of them had said.
With solitude, comes silence.
With silence, comes the ability to hear.
Listening harbors great wisdom.